


You Can Plunder My Dungeon Anytime

by CallieB



Series: Sterek Bingo 2017 [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, SBkids, Sterek Bingo 2017, de-aged!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 17:06:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10835598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallieB/pseuds/CallieB
Summary: Stiles is numb. “I’m a kid,” he repeats blankly. “I’m nearly seventeen. I’m akid.”“Um,” Scott says, or at least, the weird man-hybrid that Scott apparently is these days. “You’re twenty-seven. We had, like, a party.”Written for theKidssquare on my Sterek Bingo card.





	You Can Plunder My Dungeon Anytime

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a little late with this one because I fell asleep last night instead of posting it :/ Enjoy!
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](https://13callieb.tumblr.com/)!

Sometimes, they come in the night, and it’s unexpected, and it’s like drowning.

Other times, Stiles knows to expect them. He can feel the sensation building in his chest, like an invisible hand reaching inside him and squeezing him tighter and tighter, making it more and more difficult to breathe, until at last it overwhelms him completely and he’s gone. He can’t stop it, the blood rushing in his ears and the world spinning around him, sucking him under.

There are different ways of dealing with it. Anyone who tries to suggest breathing exercises can go fuck themselves, but holding an object – something smooth and hard that he can squeeze tight without it giving – helps sometimes. He has an app on his phone that puts up psychedelic images to try and help him focus.

Mostly, though, it’s just a question of panting through it until it’s over and he feels slightly less like he’s dying.

Different things can set off the attacks. Oddly enough, the day-to-day adrenaline of the supernatural life doesn’t seem to be a trigger, which is fortunate, since otherwise he’d never have time to get anything done. Usually, it’s any kind of heightened emotion, but he’s so used to being afraid that the fear doesn’t really faze him anymore. He just takes it and rolls with it these days.

It can be happiness. That’s the hardest thing to accept. Easy to understand that he might lose it over extreme stress, a bad day, a sudden rush of sadness because his mom’s favourite song came on the radio, but happiness? Happiness shouldn’t make him go under, but sometimes it does. Doing well on the lacrosse field. Malia kissing him for the first time. That rush of emotion can be enough to tip him over the edge.

So it stands to reason that if a simple _kiss_ is enough – if Malia is enough – then finding out that he’s forgotten the last ten years of his life should send him into a total spiral.

It doesn’t. Or at least, not at first.

Stiles is numb. “I’m a kid,” he repeats blankly. “I’m nearly seventeen. I’m a _kid_.”

“Um,” Scott says, or at least, the weird man-hybrid that Scott apparently is these days. “You’re twenty-seven. We had, like, a party.”

“Twenty- _seven_ ,” Stiles says loudly. He looks down at himself. He doesn’t look twenty-seven. He looks sixteen.

“Yeah, well, we think you’ve been, like… de-aged,” Scott says, because that apparently makes sense. Beside him, looking his usual impassive self, Deaton nods sagely.

Stiles frowns. “That happened to Derek,” he says.

Scott’s eyes widen like he’s only just remembering. “Oh, yeah!” he says. “That was so fucked up, man, I forgot all about that.”

“How the hell did you forget that?” Stiles exclaims, which maybe isn’t the main thing he should be focusing on, but fuck it, dealing with the fact that he’s apparently twenty-fucking-seven right now is so not where he wants to be going. “That was huge!”

Scott glances at Deaton. “That was ten years ago, Stiles,” he says quietly.

And yeah, that’s it. That’s when he spirals.

*

“Stiles.” The voice is calm, but not in that annoying nursey way that always makes his anxiety attacks worse. “Stiles, I need you to look at me.”

That’s good too; direct instructions always feel too forceful when he’s in the middle of an attack. There’s a pause, a silence as he tries to focus on what he’s been asked to do. He pulls his head up, his chest heaving, and finds himself looking at… Derek?

Derek’s face is totally clear. He doesn’t seem freaked out by Stiles’ panic attack at all. “It’s okay, Stiles,” he says evenly. “Just keep looking at me. I’m going to take your hands, okay?” Again, he waits, doesn’t just do it straight away. Stiles manages to nod, and Derek carefully takes his hands.

The contact is warm and grounding, and Stiles can feel his breath beginning to slow at an incremental rate. He keeps looking at Derek, into Derek’s eyes, and it’s something to concentrate on. Something other than his current predicament. And it helps.

“That’s good, Stiles,” Derek says. “Keep your feet flat on the floor. Push them down into the ground. You can do it.” Stiles finds that he can; it makes him feel less like he’s drowning, like he’s floating away, and the anxiety begins to ebb.

“How… are you… doing this?” he puffs. The flicker of a smile crosses Derek’s face.

“Experience,” he says. “Keep looking at me, Stiles. Feel my hands. See if you can find the birthmark.”

As far as Stiles knows, Derek doesn’t have any birthmarks on his hands, but then what would he know, anyway? It’s not like he and Derek are friends. They barely even speak to each other. Still, he finds himself running his fingers across the back of Derek’s hands, across the protruding veins, the smooth nails, the hard knuckles. It helps.

Slowly, his vision starts to clear, and his breathing slows to a normal rate. Stiles becomes aware that he’s still holding Derek’s hands; he decides to pretend that he isn’t for a while. He doesn’t particularly want to let go.

“Hey,” Derek says softly. “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay,” Stiles says, even though he isn’t.

Derek actually smiles, which is a new facial expression on him. “You always say that,” he says.

“What do you mean?” Stiles says sharply. “How do you know?”

For some reason, this seems to concern Derek. A crease appears across his forehead, and he looks almost… hurt. He glances at Scott. “I’ve seen this before,” he says, very quietly.

Scott says: “Stiles, a lot has happened in ten years.”

*

Lydia, apparently, is a clinical engineer at MIT. This doesn’t surprise Stiles at all, but it does mean that she’s not around to be reassuringly human and just a bit more ordinary than everyone else. Of everybody in the pack, Lydia’s the one who he expects to have stayed exactly the same. Still beautiful and as sharp as a whip, and definitely still human – or at least, human adjacent. From everything Scott has told him, this assessment is spot-on.

“What about Jackson?” he can’t help asking. Scott rolls his eyes.

“We haven’t heard from Jackson in years,” he says. He hesitates, glancing quickly at Derek. “Are you… do you still… I mean, with Lydia—”

“I don’t fancy Lydia anymore,” Stiles interrupts. He actually got over that about a year ago – or eleven years ago, he supposes – but there’s no need for Scott to know that. He might figure out who Stiles has moved on to, although judging by the nervous looks he keeps shooting Derek’s way, he already knows far too much about that.

Scott, oddly, looks relieved. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, cool.”

Stiles decides he’s had enough of the dicking around. He turns to Deaton. “When am I going to grow up again?” he asks. “Like, sixteen is pretty cool, you know? But I bet twenty-seven is cooler. And being the baby of all my friends is going to _suck_. Don’t I have, like, work, or something?”

“Your boss will let you off,” Derek says. There’s that hint of a smile again, like he knows something Stiles doesn’t.

“We’re hopeful that the spell should wear off in a few days,” Deaton says. “In the meantime, I’m researching some alternatives.”

“Great,” Stiles sighs. A thought occurs to him. “Where do I live? Am I still at home?”

Again, Scott and Derek exchange glances. It’s starting to get _really_ fucking annoying. Scott says: “You can stay at my place.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Why? Where do I live?”

“Stiles—” Derek begins.

“What?” Stiles says.

Derek appears to hesitate. “You shouldn’t be alone right now,” he says at last. “Go stay with Scott’s family.”

“Scott’s family?” Stiles repeats. “Are you and Kira…?”

Scott visibly flinches. “Um,” he says. He looks weirdly nervous. “Kira and I aren’t together anymore. She moved away a while ago.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. He’d kind of thought that Kira was endgame for Scott, but he figures that things change in ten years. “So who’s the family?”

Scott fidgets. “You’re okay with it,” he says. “I mean, the real you – the older you. You’re fine with it.”

“Scott,” Stiles says.

“I married Malia,” Scott says, extremely quickly.

There’s a few moments when Stiles is just frozen, because he’s trying to work out exactly how he’s supposed to react to what Scott just said. On the one hand… _Malia_? Malia and _Scott_? Really? And on the other, dude, whatever happened to the bro code?

“Malia,” he says slowly. “You married Malia.”

“We started dating about five and a half years ago,” Scott says, the words tumbling over each other as he speaks. “You and her… well, you were way over, and anyway you were with... well, you didn’t mind. We talked about it. I was going to ask you, actually, and then you guessed it on your own and, like, _made_ me ask her out. It was pretty much your idea.”

That does sound like Stiles. “Was I best man?” he asks suspiciously. Scott gives a choking laugh.

“Yeah,” he says. “Of course you were. Who else would I have?”

“How was my speech?” Stiles asks.

“It was brilliant,” Derek says. Stiles had almost forgotten he was there. “Malia cried.”

“ _Malia_ cried?” Stiles repeats. “Damn, I’m good.”

Scott laughs. “We got married nearly three years ago now,” he says. He bites his lip. “Stiles… I have a son.”

And shit, _that’s_ a punch in the stomach, because Scott has a kid. Scott is old enough to have a kid, which means that Stiles is supposed to be old enough to have a kid, because his whole life has apparently happened and now he’s lost it. Derek – still holding his hands – squeezes his fingers gently.

“You’re godfather,” he says.

“How old?” Stiles chokes out.

“Eight months,” Scott says. There’s a silence.

“Who else?” Stiles asks. “Who else is married, or has kids?”

Scott looks at Derek; Derek shakes his head minutely. Stiles narrows his eyes, because if they think they’re getting away with not telling him something, they’ve got another think coming. Scott says: “My mom married Chris Argent six years ago, but they don’t have any more kids. Corey and Mason are engaged. And Liam…” He hesitates _again_ , looking back at Derek.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Can you just fucking tell me? I’m not going to melt down again.” He pauses. “Okay, I might melt down, but fuck it. I need to know this shit.”

“Liam and Theo are living together,” Derek says. “You think it’s morbidly cute.”

Stiles can feel his mouth dropping open. “Theo as in Theo _Raeken_?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Scott says.

“I’ve figured this out,” Stiles says. “This is an alternate reality, right? Because there’s _no way_ that the Theo I know could be living with Liam. Like, ever. That would never happen.”

“Dude, I know,” Scott says, sounding uncharacteristically grumpy.

“But Theo’s a baddie!” Stiles says desperately. “He ripped out his own sister’s heart!”

Scott flinches. “We don’t really talk about that anymore,” he says.

“He’s different now,” Derek agrees. “That was a long time ago.”

“Fuck me,” Stiles sighs. “I don’t think I _want_ to grow up.”

*

He starts off staying with Scott and Malia, but it’s weird. It’s so, so fucking weird. Their baby boy is just about the most adorable thing in the world, but watching Scott hold him? Watching him put on a lab coat every morning and head off to work – because he’s apparently a fully qualified veterinarian now – after kissing Malia on the cheek? It’s weird. Scott is only supposed to be sixteen, just like Stiles. But he’s not. He’s an adult now.

Malia is different too; she’s a fucking _mother_ now. She’s still blunt, scratchy, rough around the edges, but there’s a softness to her now that Stiles hasn’t seen before. He has to admit, watching them together, that she and Scott work well together. He’s so fucking laid-back that her weird neuroticism – which always brought out the worst of Stiles’ anxiety when they were together, and vice versa – just slides right over him. They bring out the best in each other. It’s oddly nice to see, but just really, really strange.

He hangs out with his dad a lot, after he moves back in with him; as it turns out, his dad is also his boss, hence Derek’s amusement when he talked about work. The Sheriff – and he is still the Sheriff, which Stiles finds gratifying after all these years – seems both bemused and touchingly pleased to have a teenage son again. They watch a lot of sport together, and go fishing, which apparently they haven’t done in months. Stiles fiercely tells his older self to make more of an effort when he comes back.

Even Liam and Theo start to make sense after a while. It takes Stiles some time before he can bring himself to actually come face-to-face with Theo, but once he does, it’s really fucking annoying.

“Seriously, why were you a villain?” he complains one night when he and Derek are at Liam and Theo’s flat for dinner and a movie. He’s not quite sure why Derek is there too, but he’s not complaining. “We could have been such awesome friends.”

Theo, thankfully, doesn’t seem bothered by the reminder of his once-evil status. He just laughs. “Yeah? How come?”

“Because!” Stiles exclaims in frustration. “You’re funny, dude! You’re _sarcastic_. Do you know how many friends I have who are actually anywhere near as salty as me?”

“Your best friends are Liam and Scott, so I’m going to say none,” Theo says.

“ _Exactly_ ,” Stiles says.

Theo looks at Derek; there’s a smile on his face. “Stiles,” Theo says. “I know this is ten years off for you, but when you’re twenty-seven, you and I _are_ friends.”

Which is teeth-grindingly satisfying to hear.

“You must think I’m so immature,” Stiles comments to Derek in the car on the way home. Derek doesn’t appear to have his Camaro anymore; he’s traded it in for a sleek, yet much more practical silver Honda.

“What makes you say that?” Derek asks.

Stiles shrugs. “You’re what, in your early thirties by now?” he says. “While I’m back to being a teenager. That’s an age gap of, like, seventeen years. I must seem like a child to you.”

Derek frowns, looking like he’s thinking about it. “Not really,” he says pensively. “I don’t know, Stiles, you’ve always seemed to be just _you_. And I like that.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything, because fuck, that was one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to him.

*

Derek is becoming a bit of a problem. Just a bit. A teensy bit. Or, you know, a fucking huge amount.

He’s just so fucking considerate, and gentle, and sweet, and he helps Stiles with _everything_. He talks to him, filling him in with all the details of everything he’s missed over the last ten years. He watches movies with Stiles, queuing up 80s classics on his Netflix without being asked because apparently he already knows about Stiles’ love affair with _Sixteen Candles_. He comes round to the Sheriff’s house, like, every single evening, and cooks incredible food and talks to Stiles’ dad and totally ruins Stiles’ life.

“This has to stop,” he groans at last, because his dad and Derek are actually in hysterics together at the dining table over some joke Derek has told.

The Sheriff looks over at him. “What?”

“This!” Stiles exclaims, gesturing wildly to the pair of them. “You two, getting so friendly. What is this?”

“We’ve always been friendly, son,” the Sheriff says, sounding slightly hurt that Stiles might doubt this.

“Yeah, sure,” Stiles says dismissively. “But come on, guys. This is, like, a new _level_.”

Derek and the Sheriff exchange glances. Stiles is getting _really fucking sick_ of everyone doing that. Derek says eventually: “We’ve become closer than you remember over the last ten years, Stiles.”

“Ever since—” his dad begins, and then stops abruptly.

“Ever since _what_?” Stiles demands. “What aren’t you telling me?” He looks from one to the other; once again, they’re glancing awkwardly at each other. “ _Stop doing that_!”

“Stiles,” Derek says soothingly. “It’s okay.”

“Just tell me,” Stiles interrupts flatly. “Don’t hide things from me.”

There’s a pause. And then the Sheriff says: “You’re married.”

For a few moments, Stiles just gapes at him, mouth opening and closing in a manner reminiscent of a goldfish. “I’m _what_?” he says.

Derek looks oddly uncomfortable. “Married,” he says. “You’re married.”

“To _who_?” Stiles exclaims. The subtext – who the hell would marry _him_? – must surely be evident.

“Me,” Derek says. And that’s all he manages to say, because that’s when Stiles loses it completely.

*

“Just hold my hands,” Derek says, but it’s not helping this time, because God-fucking- _dammit_ , Stiles is apparently _married_ to him—

“Stiles,” the Sheriff says gently. “Look at Derek. He can get you through this. He always does.”

That’s just about the worst thing he could possibly say, because now Stiles is realising why Derek is so good at talking him through his anxiety attacks, why he feels so reassuring and comfortable, because they’re married, they’re _married_ —

“Why… didn’t… anyone… tell me?” he chokes out, gulping for air. “This… _bullshit_ …”

“Hey,” Derek says. “Look at me, Stiles.” Stiles does look at him, looks at his calm, irritatingly gorgeous face, his eyes clear and warm and totally comforting. “It’s my fault,” he says. “I didn’t want to freak you out.”

“Right, because… finding out I’m _married_ —” Stiles wheezes. He has to stop to cough, great heaving splutters, because talking isn’t really an option right now. “ _Married_ ,” he manages to gasp through his panting.

Derek has a tight, constricted look on his face. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I know it must be a shock, Stiles, but I need you to concentrate on your body for now, okay? Push your feet into the floor. You can do it, Stiles. It’s okay.”

Stiles maintains that he only does what Derek says because it genuinely does help, although realising how Derek knows that it _will_ help threatens to bring on another wave of panic. He forces it down with some difficulty, slowly regulating his breathing and concentrating on moving his chest in and out in even strokes, the way his old therapist back when he was about twelve recommended.

At last, he lifts his head. “You should have told me.”

“I know,” Derek says. “I would have, Stiles. It just seemed like a lot to put on you. You’re sixteen. Finding out you’re married to the guy you think is a murderer—”

“I don’t think you’re a murderer,” Stiles says in surprise. “Is that – I mean, I only thought that, like, so briefly. You don’t really think I believe that, do you?”

Derek bites his lip. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles can see his dad sidling surreptitiously from the room. “I don’t know, Stiles. You were pretty scared of me at sixteen,” Derek says.

“Well, yeah,” Stiles says, because it’s not like he can deny it. Derek can literally hear his heartbeat. “You’re all tall and growly, and I’ve seen you wolf out and kill a ton of things.”

“Right,” Derek says heavily. “So I didn’t want to—”

Stiles waves his explanation away with one hand. “Yeah, but Derek,” he says. “You always protect me. Mostly I kind of think you’re awesome.” He stops to think about it; Derek, apparently, is his husband, so he reckons he’s allowed to say this. “And hot,” he adds. “Like, a lot of what I’m scared about is that you’ll figure out how hot I think you are.”

“Oh,” Derek says, sounding surprised. He’s smiling. “Really?”

Stiles frowns. “Haven’t we… talked about this? I mean, we’re married, right? Haven’t we laughed about the ridiculously enormous crush I had on you when I was sixteen?”

“Um,” Derek says, sounding oddly guilty. “Yeah. I mean, you told me. I just…”

“You didn’t believe me, did you?” Stiles says shrewdly. A thought occurs to him. “Did I do this on purpose? Like, get de-aged so that I could tell you this?”

“Not that that’s not something you would do,” Derek says drily, “but no. It was definitely the fae.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. He grins. “Hey, did you like me too? When I was sixteen?”

“No,” Derek says firmly. “I found you really annoying when you were sixteen.”

Stiles, not perturbed at all, sticks out his tongue. “Whatever, dude. When did we get together?”

“When you came back from college,” Derek says. “You just… grew up. Or maybe I did, I don’t know.” He fidgets a little. “I started seeing a therapist while everyone was at college.”

“Who came on to whom?” Stiles asks. Derek snorts.

“What do you think?” he says. “Of course it was you. You were… confident. You figured out that I liked you and just marched into the loft demanding that I take you out for a burger.”

Stiles nods, because yeah, that sounds like something he would do. “How long have we been married?”

Derek gives a smile that’s almost _shy_. “Four months,” he says, which is enough to make Stiles’ eyes widen.

“Woah,” he says. “And is it awesome? Being married?”

Derek shrugs. “I think so,” he says diffidently.

“Cool,” Stiles says. And it is.

*

Three days later, Stiles wakes up in the spare bedroom of his and Derek’s house (he moved back in after their conversation, but Derek is annoyingly insistent that they’re not sharing a bed until he’s back to the proper age) to find that he’s twenty-seven again.

He lets out a loud whooping cheer, which of course brings Derek, with his supernatural hearing, running straight in.

When he sees Stiles, he gives him that enormous, toothy grin that Stiles loves so much. “Stiles,” he says in relief.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Stiles says. “I’m me again. Thank fuck for that.”

Derek kisses him hungrily. “I’ve missed this,” he says in a low voice. He laughs. “I felt like such a pervert, trying to pretend I wasn’t attracted to you.”

“I _knew_ it,” Stiles crows triumphantly. “I knew you liked me when I was a teenager.”

“Shut up,” Derek growls.


End file.
